Jul 2019
My Insomnia is a ****.
He keeps me up at night and keeps the end of my bed warm.
When the sun sets and the moon comes up, I should be dreaming of soft things or wacky situations that could never happen.
But instead, I'm trapped here, with my Insomnia at the foot of my bed, keeping me on my phone.
My Insomnia is a patient man.
I've tried, believe me, to ignore him. I've laid for hours in my bed, wrapped up in blankets.
I've counted thousands of sheep, let them hop to and fro from my bed to the door.
But he shoos them away when they get to close.
My Insomnia is a jealous man.
He doesn't like Sleep and her warm and gentle touches. He favors his cold and sharp hands.
He doesn't let her take me until he's had me to the sunrise, where I should be waking now instead of sleeping.
He keeps me until my eyes are stinging and I'm all but begging to be released. He let's go only because he'll return at the end of the day when the sun sets and the moon rises.
My Insomnia keeps me in a prison.
I can't see the night progress through the blanket I've hung up on my window, as a makeshift curtain to keep the sun out of my eyes as I sleep the day away.
The night pities me and the day yearns for me. My friends wait for me and my sisters lose patience as I miss out on plans. My grandma worries for me, and pulls me from the gentle embrace of sleep.
My Insomnia is a cruel man.
He keeps me chained to my phone and my computer, to the horrors of my mind as I only seek relief through sleep.
The chains used to cut when I was eleven and so exhausted and so confused when he had first graced the end of my bed.
But now, when I'm edging into eighteen, I'm only tired and defeated. I can only let him run his course, and wait for school to arrive so I can imprison him with sugar-coated pills bought over the counter.
My Insomnia is an *******.
For even as I drift off in the warm arms of Sleep, I can see him drifting above my bed.
He whispers promises to return at the end of the day, to which he always does, to torment and keeps me awake until my eyes burn.
To keep me awake until I regret everything and burn in memories that resurface when the sun has gone away, and Sleep can't protect me.
My Insomnia has an iron grip on me, that not even Sleep can break as I rest in her golden arms and breathe in her strawberry hair.
My Insomnia is a spoiled man.
And he always gets what he wants.
He keeps me up at night and keeps the end of my bed warm.
When the sun sets and the moon comes up, I should be dreaming of soft things or wacky situations that could never happen.
But instead, I'm trapped here, with my Insomnia at the foot of my bed, keeping me on my phone.
My Insomnia is a patient man.
I've tried, believe me, to ignore him. I've laid for hours in my bed, wrapped up in blankets.
I've counted thousands of sheep, let them hop to and fro from my bed to the door.
But he shoos them away when they get to close.
My Insomnia is a jealous man.
He doesn't like Sleep and her warm and gentle touches. He favors his cold and sharp hands.
He doesn't let her take me until he's had me to the sunrise, where I should be waking now instead of sleeping.
He keeps me until my eyes are stinging and I'm all but begging to be released. He let's go only because he'll return at the end of the day when the sun sets and the moon rises.
My Insomnia keeps me in a prison.
I can't see the night progress through the blanket I've hung up on my window, as a makeshift curtain to keep the sun out of my eyes as I sleep the day away.
The night pities me and the day yearns for me. My friends wait for me and my sisters lose patience as I miss out on plans. My grandma worries for me, and pulls me from the gentle embrace of sleep.
My Insomnia is a cruel man.
He keeps me chained to my phone and my computer, to the horrors of my mind as I only seek relief through sleep.
The chains used to cut when I was eleven and so exhausted and so confused when he had first graced the end of my bed.
But now, when I'm edging into eighteen, I'm only tired and defeated. I can only let him run his course, and wait for school to arrive so I can imprison him with sugar-coated pills bought over the counter.
My Insomnia is an *******.
For even as I drift off in the warm arms of Sleep, I can see him drifting above my bed.
He whispers promises to return at the end of the day, to which he always does, to torment and keeps me awake until my eyes burn.
To keep me awake until I regret everything and burn in memories that resurface when the sun has gone away, and Sleep can't protect me.
My Insomnia has an iron grip on me, that not even Sleep can break as I rest in her golden arms and breathe in her strawberry hair.
My Insomnia is a spoiled man.
And he always gets what he wants.
